Go Away, But Come Closer
by INMH
Summary: For the love bingo challenge, prompt "Learning to Know Each Other". Anyone who knew him would say that you never wanted Romo Lampkin to be interested in you. Romo/Tory  So obviously we have some crack here .


Go Away, But Come Closer

**Rating:** PG-13/T

**Genre:** Drama/Humor/Romance

**Summary:** For the love_bingo challenge, prompt "Learning to Know Each Other". Anyone who knew him would say that you never wanted Romo Lampkin to be _interested_ in you. Romo/Tory (So obviously we have some crack here).

**Author's Note:** PFFT, I JUST DON'T KNOW. I loved Tory in the series, and I was contemplating story ideas and pairings with her in it and… It just happened.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Battlestar Galactica. It belongs to Ron Moore and David Eick.

[-]

"So what are you doing this afternoon?"

"Imagining what Baltar's oxygen deprived face will look like when they find him guilty and execute him."

Oh, so terse and stern. She would be a tough nut to crack.

Tory Foster interested him. And anyone who knew him would say that you never wanted Romo Lampkin to be _interested_ in you.

He got a high- a legitimate, honest-to-the-Gods-high- from pissing people off. Foster was a woman prided on her ability to keep face and composure under heavy fire, which meant that it would take a great deal to finally make her explode.

And boy, would he have fun trying.

"So little faith in my abilities of defense."

"As well as surprise that you're still breathing after that assassination attempt."

"Take more than a bit of explosives to get rid of me, darling."

He saw her expression twitch, and could tell that he was about

"The fact that you're a cockroach in a suit is one of the few things I do know about you."

"You know, we _could_ fix that."

"You know, you _could_ pitch yourself out of the nearest airlock."

"You like airlocks."

"I do."

"You've been working for Madam Airlock for too long."

Tit for tat, this one. He loved a woman who didn't stumble in her insults. He also loved a woman that could handle being prodded at like this and not storming off in a huff. One that could play the game and play it well. He should have expected nothing less from a conniving political aide of her caliber. He was already getting an almost obscene thrill from the idea that they might have many encounters like this in the future (Gods, he really _did_ thrive on the irritation of others).

"Better than working for Gaius Baltar."

"I'm in it for the notoriety, sweetheart."

"Funny how notoriety can end with a bomb rigged up to your door."

"Funny indeed. You wouldn't happen to know the identity of the lovely fellow who might have had something to do with that, would you?"

"No, but I do know something you'd love to know."

"And that is..?"

She leaned forward.

"When the judge bangs the gavel five times and starts looking at you with that expression, it means that she wants you to turn around and pay attention." Romo processed that, and then whipped around with an apologetic smile.

He couldn't decide if Foster had won that round or not.

Oh well: If he had his way, there would be many more to come.

[-]

"What is this?"

She held up the note.

Ooh, busted.

"A request for cessation of hostilities between your lawyers and mine."

"First of all, the prosecutor is not 'ours'. She represents the fleet. Second, this sounds less like a formal, legal request for cessation of hostilities and more like you subtly trying to figure out if I'm single or not."

Wow. And he thought that he'd worded that pretty… Wordily. She was a sharp one, Foster.

"Are you?"

The hand holding the note dropped to her side. Her expression was, true to form, deadpanned.

"We are not having this conversation."

Romo shrugged. "If you say so."

Lance chose at that moment to dart out from under the rack and place himself at Foster's feet, looking up with that expression of entitlement all cats possessed. Her expression barely flickered, eyes narrowing slightly down at him before looking back up to Romo.

"You have a cat?"

"My wife's."

Now Foster's eyes brows jumped up. "You're married?"

"Was."

Her expression went neutral again, but the fact that she didn't prod the issue told him that she understood that he meant 'dead' rather than 'divorced'.

"Don't send me anymore questions under the guise of legal activity."

"Certainly."

She left.

Romo smirked, and began thinking up the wording of a new letter regarding the politics of Roslin's administration that subtly determined how many sexual partners Foster had had in her lifetime.

Not an ounce of legal activity to be had.

[-]

"Tory-"

"I know."

"I know you know, this is just-"

"I know what it is, Madam President. Believe me. I know."

"And you're going to-?"

"Take care of it. Expediently."

The last time Laura heard her say something in that tone, a fleet-wide election had been almost successfully rigged. She kneaded her temples as she realized that Baltar mind be finding himself with a new lawyer again sometime soon.

[-]

"You're quite lovely."

"You make me physically ill."

Romo was tempted to take that as truth. She was a looking a little strange lately: Her hair was a littler messier, her eyes were a bit bloodshot, and her gait wasn't as fluid as before. All in all, she looked a little less well-kept and a little more like she hadn't slept in a year or two.

All the same, she was probably just having an off day.

Which was actually the subject of today's poking session.

"So, that _press_ _conference_-"

"Oh _gods-_"

"Never known you to go all snippy-snappy on the press like that. Can't say I'm fond of the leeches myself, but usually you're the one catching Roslin's mistakes, not vice-versa."

"We are _not_ having this conversation."

"That was your line last time, darling. Now tell me, what's got your panties in such a bunch that you can't make nice with Fallbrook?"

"None of your business."

"A mature and thoughtful response."

"This coming from the kleptomaniac who stole the President's glasses to make her look less serious."

Romo's eyes narrowed, and he had to think a second before he could respond. He was further stymied in his thought processes when he saw the triumphant smirk on her face. "How do you know about that?"

"You have your ways, I have mine." She said simply.

Now he was irritated.

How in the name of the _Gods_ had she found out about his little… Strategy?

"How did you know?"

Foster just smirked like a bitch and didn't say anything. She still looked off, but the knowledge that she had gotten to him and very obviously _knew_ it was, he assumed, cheering her in ways she hadn't been cheered in a while.

"I _will_ find out."

"Mm-hm." She was looking at some documents she was probably carrying to Roslin. Some might have wondered how she still had a job following that outburst at the press conference, but anyone who knew about Tory Foster's work-ethic knew that Roslin would have to be overdosing on Chamalla to get rid of an employee as dedicated as Foster.

"I'm not kidding, Foster. I'll set my cat on you."

Foster actually _laughed_ at that, a real, honest laugh that made a funny feeling spark in his stomach. "That cat wouldn't attack anyone, especially if you asked it to." She abruptly stopped walking and turned around to face him, and he made certain that he was directly within her personal bubble. She didn't seem to be too bothered by it. "And I'm not telling you how I found out." She smirked. "Watching you sweat over it is too much fun."

Maybe, but Romo was pretty good at reading expressions. If he guessed, maybe something in her face would betray her thoughts (unlikely, she was good at keeping it cool). "Did Roslin tell you?"

"No."

"Did Baltar tell you?"

She snorted. "No."

"Did Lee tell you?"

"No. But thank you for letting me know that Lee Adama knows about your kleptomania." Romo scrunched his face up in rage, wanting so badly to kick himself. Foster just chuckled harder, and maybe, just maybe, he could appreciate that he now knew what it took to make her laugh.

_Still, I'll have to probe a little deeper and see how she gets her information. _

[-]

He saw her briefly when the trial was over, and the courtroom was being cleared. She was looking at him past the shoulder of an MP ushering her and Roslin and others out of the stands and directly to the door. He was too focused on Baltar, Lee and the increasingly irate crowd to do anything.

After the chaos erupted and Lee and Romo said goodbye to their client in his now ex-cell, he saw her once more- They bumped into each other in the hallway. He had no idea where she was going, but she'd been rushing, and she'd crashed into him hard enough to knock his glasses askew.

"Walk much?" He'd asked before he realized that it was her.

"Sorry," She'd started before she recognized him.

They both stopped, hesitated, because usually Romo was the one who found her and she was usually sharp enough to go tit for tat on the fly, and neither of them had been expecting this.

Romo snapped to it first. "Oh, it's you. I guess the answer's 'no', then- You spend too much time as Roslin's lap-dog to do much walking."

Foster sniffed. "Better on her lap than Baltar's."

Romo's eye may have twitched. "I was not on his lap, dear- In fact, I just cut ties with the ass."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Oh, so _now_ he's an ass."

"Wanted me to work out the legalities of the book he's going to write." Foster rolled her eyes shut, and for the first time it felt like he'd touched on a subject where they _didn't_ disagree. Maybe Baltar wasn't deserving of death, but he was more than deserving of a swift kick in the hindquarters. "And where are you off to?"

"Dinner. You?"

"My room. Unfortunately, the bloody thing covered in fur needs to eat every now and then." His eyebrows jumped up. "Though it _could_ stand to wait, if you'd like some company-"

"_Goodbye,_ Mr. Lampkin." She interrupted flatly. Romo sighed as she pushed past him; he hadn't really been expecting anything else. But just as he started to fix his sunglasses and was about to walk away, he heard a slight noise of discontent from behind. "Lampkin,"

He turned to look at her. "Hm? Rethinking that offer?"

Foster glared at him half-heartedly. "I'm already regretting what I'm about to say, as it'll probably only serve to stroke your ego… But…" She shut her eyes. "Not bad. With the case."

"Do my ears deceive me?"

"Not a lot of people could have pulled Baltar out of the hole he dug himself into, nor would a lot of people _want_ to. You…" She rolled her eyes upward, and yes, she was definitely regretting what she was saying, "You were impressive." He could tell right after she said that that she was wishing that she'd chosen a word… _Less_ than impressive.

"Be still my beating heart."

"Don't misread me: In general, you still make me physically ill."

[-]

The next time he found Foster, not a great deal of time elapsing between this and the last meeting, it was while the ship was apparently malfunctioning like mad and she was turning her stomach inside-out in the bathroom.

"You know," He remarked idly, "When you said that I make you physically ill, I actually assumed that you were being facetious."

That time- _that time_- he got an almost-smile. "I was not."

"I can see that."

"What are you doing here?"

"I live here."

"In the ladies' room?"

"You have your hobbies, I have mine."

"I thought kleptomania with petty objects was your hobby."

"That too."

She looked awful. God-awful. But then, she'd just been throwing up, so he couldn't really expect supermodel-level perfection. The bags under her eyes were more pronounced, and her actual eyes looked… Unfocused. Unsteady. Her equilibrium had been thrown off spectacularly.

"Might I suggest getting off of Roslin's lap long enough to get a good night's sleep? Or some intensive flu remedies?"

Foster shook her head, but not as though she were rejecting that option; rather, it was the kind of head-shake you did when something was caught in your hair. "I don't have the time."

"I suggest you make time, sweetheart: Can't work if you're dead."

"I'd find a way."

"No doubt you could. I've never met a workaholic quite like you."

"Mm…"

Suddenly an odd, blank look came over her face. She slowly straightened up, pushing off the wall, and looked up and around the room as though she could hear something that he couldn't.

"What?"

"Nothing. I have to go."

[-]

When he didn't see her for a few weeks, Romo decided to take the direct approach and visit her quarters.

Contrary to his previous assessment of her, it seemed that Foster's work habits had declined somewhat over the past three weeks. He knew this not only because of Foster's conspicuous absence from her usual places at her usual times, but also because Laura Roslin appeared to be more than a bit off her groove (That could, in retrospect, have also had something to do with the cancer treatment).

He knocked on her door, but didn't say a word; like hell she would invite him in if she knew it was him. Romo waited silently, counting, waiting for a response, a noise, something. But nothing. So he tried one more time, knocking a bit more loudly, but it was a single room, and if she couldn't hear him she was probably _dead_ or off somewhere else at the moment-

_Ding!_

The tiny light-bulb in Romo's head lit up, and an almost manic smile spread across his face.

Maybe he could just… Step inside… And take a look around. Maybe take a pen or a trinket, and if perhaps Foster was deliberately making sure that he couldn't track her down in order to have more fun conversations (see: harassment) with her, then she would be forced to come and find _him_.

And if she walked in to find him there? Even better.

So, with a quick look back and forth, Romo cocked and eyebrow and gently pushed open the door, smirking when it wasn't locked and wondering how someone as perfunctory as Foster could actually be so careless…

…And then walked in on said political aide in the midst of a mental collapse.

"Oh, goodness- Am I-?" But Romo fell silent when he realized that Foster had barely noticed him. She was sitting on the edge of her rack, head in her hands. She looked twice as ill as she had when he'd last seen her. "Foster?"

"Leave." It lacked its usual fire. It lacked _any_ fire.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I am a _terrible_ person. That's what's wrong." She whispered, shaking her head. "I'm not even a person."

Frankly, he was starting to get a little disturbed. When a woman like Tory, who held herself with such obvious confidence and self-assuredness, suddenly had a massive downward spiral in which she detailed how worthless she was it was usually an indicator of some serious psychological issues.

_She can't be bi-polar. I'd have noticed by now. Depression, maybe?_

"Well you'll have to explain that to me, sweetheart, because political puppet or not, I think "terrible person" is a bit of an unnecessary stretch."

"How would you know?" He knew something was wrong when the remark lacked any and all venom. The Tory Foster he knew would have taken that sentence she'd just spoken and beaten him over the head with it.

"Because I know you."

"A few meetings where you irritate me, and suddenly you know me?"

"That's how I get to know everyone, love." He moved to her bunk and sat down beside her.

And as much as he knew her by now, that should have gotten a smirk. Or a smile. Or some kind of biting retort that brought shivers running down his spine, because her bitterness was _such_ a turn-on.

But no, no retort, no smile, no smirk.

"I'm flawed. Flawed in a very, very bad way." She seemed to be unable to look at him when she said that. It was only when Romo snorted loudly that she was able to face him again with a degree of confusion written on her face.

"_No one's_ perfect." He rolled his eyes. "And if there are higher beings responsible for creating us, it would have been cruel to create true perfection in human form. Or Cylon form, for that matter."

Foster looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ that part of being human- or Cylon, evidently, Baltar's given me enough sermons on the lot of them to let me know that they have more similarities to us than anyone cares to mention- is striving to be better than what we are. We want to be stronger, smarter, faster, kinder, prettier, healthier, pick your poison. A person who is perfect has, in theory, achieved everything they ever wanted for themselves and more, and no longer has anything to strive for. They peak, they have perfection, and then the act of maintaining said perfection will probably drive them into the ground anyway.

"Excluding the idea that the Gods have somehow given us the capacity for perfection, actually attaining it for ourselves is impossible because everything we want somehow intertwines with things that other people want, and as I'm sure you've noticed, no one ever wants exactly the same thing as everyone else. Can't please all of the people all of the time. Perfection is a utopian concept that can never truly be achieved. We have to settle with divining our own means of _feeling_ perfect so that we don't kill ourselves striving for what is actually impossible to achieve."

Foster stared at him for a long moment. "You make it sound so simple."

"It _is_ simple. And you never struck me as the kind of woman that would ascribe to unrealistic belief systems."

She gave a raw laugh. "You assumed wrong."

"Clearly." He could see that she'd come down from her panic and was starting to crash into the kind of state that had her eyes drooping. "You need to get some sleep."

"No thinly-veiled remarks regarding my relationship status today?"

"I'll save that for when you have the proper facilities to rip me to shreds in return." She smiled and looked almost grateful, not only for the reprieve from his badgering but also for, it seemed, the speech.  
>"Thank you."<p>

"Not a problem." Romo leaned towards her. "We're all flawed, Foster," He remarked into her ear, "I suggest you embrace yours, because they're apart of what you have at your disposal. My kleptomania, for instance, would be considered a _massive_ flaw by most, and I use it to my advantage. And in my own, personal opinion, whatever flaws you may possess, I have thoroughly enjoyed getting to know how you work with them."

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, and was cheered by the fact that Foster didn't seem phased in the slightest.

"Thanks." A miniscule smirk. "Now get out."

"Sure. Be back to torment you next week, Tory."

-End


End file.
